What Would Naboo Do?
by DramionePerfected
Summary: 'When we said think like Naboo, Bollo, we didn't mean for you to smoke THAT' Vince and Howard had been apart for years. Living and working at opposite ends of the country, the two men were brought together by evil forces unknown as a mysterious letter forces them to consider life without the weird and wonderful Shaman Naboo. R&R
1. Chapter 1

**"_What Would Naboo Do?"_**

**_A DRAMIONEPERFECTED FIC_**

**_Summary: 'When we said think like Naboo, Bollo, we didn't mean for you to smoke THAT!' _Vince and Howard had been apart for years. Living and working at opposite ends of the country, the two men were brought together by evil forces unknown as a mysterious letter forces them to consider life without the weird and wonderful Shaman Naboo.  
><em>_****_Disclaimer: No, as much as I'd like to, I DO NOT own Noel, Julian, Michael, or the Mighty Boosh. Just…read. And enjoy._**

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><p>"<em>And it turned out, it was my pencil case all along!" <em>The moustached man stood before the class of students, laughing nervously as he observed the bored, glassy eyes of the teenagers that filled the room. Several yawned, resting their heads on their desks; others jeered and whispered.

"This is rubbish!"

"We're supposed to be learning Media Studies, not Pencil Case Safety!"

"Organised stationary is the backbone of success, sir." The weather beaten fellow stared down at the cockney teen with tiny eyes, narrowed to near invisibility. _Youth these days! _

"Whatever. When's Mr Armstead coming back? It's just that I need this GSCE. There's no way I'm ending up a caretaker… an epic fail, like _you_". _GCSE's_. One of the reasons the caretaker was in the dead-end job he was now. Memories came flooding back: of simpler times, of better times, and of a scrawny, bright, happy-go-lucky guy with annoyingly perfect hair.

"Excuse me?" As if in answer, Mr Armstead stood in the doorway, arms full of coursework and files. "Mr…" the young teacher squinted at the name badge, clearly of no idea who the caretaker was. "…Moon? Yes! Um, Howard Moon. You've done quite enough, thank you."

With door open as an invitation of leaving, Howard headed out of the classroom, his feet squeaking on the polished linoleum flooring. The git was right, he _was_ a fail. It wasn't this that was getting him down - he had always been behind, slightly less than successful, so that was nothing new. It was just that when he was in those crappy jobs, earning just enough to keep things ticking over - when he was a bin-man, a zookeeper, and a shopkeeper - there was always somebody there to tell him that he still had a chance - Vince Noir. Admittedly, Vince had also disrespected his hair, fashion sense, taste in music and a million other things to boot, and they drove each other crazy - but what's that saying? _You don't miss the water 'til the well runs dry. _Howard wasn't short of water, but he most certainly was short of Vince.

"Mr Moon!" Once again, the teacher was behind him, clutching an envelope in his hand. _Did he honestly have anything else to rub in his face? A good job? Good clothes? Now this… envelope? _"I found this; it was mixed up with my paperwork. Its addressed to… you?" _Always the tone of surprise! _Snatching the letter away, Howard headed to his cupboard/office, to the privacy of Stationary Village to open the mystery letter.

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><p>195 miles, 3 hours-27 minutes and a whole other world away from the small Leeds secondary school where his long-lost friend was working, Vince Noir woke up in his small London flat to the sharp tapping sounds coming from his window. It was Monday morning, and after a weekend of wild parties, Vince was in need of a lie-in to recover before his afternoon shift at Top-Shop - unfortunately, the Cheekbone Magazine delivery ninja's didn't run on the young goth-mod's timetable. Opening his window, the latest copy of Cheekbone - displaying the glossy faces of The Black Tubes - was flung inside before Vince could even say 'Mick Jagger'. Placing it down on the kitchen table, he turned to plug in his Nicky Clarke straighteners before noticing the attached letter. <em>Probably Leroy messing with the post. Hasn't he heard of e-mail? At least Howard knew not to get in the way of his Cheekbone. <em>Grabbing the butter knife from the side, Vince split open the envelope, and proceeded to read.

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><p>In the dark, damp, dusty basements of the abandoned Nabootique, something evil was brewing. Strange creatures were hiding in the shadows; black voodoo was in the air. Then, out of the darkness, came a voice, haggard and villainous as ever. "Turn on the lights! I can't see a bleeding thing in 'ere, you slags!" A powerful beam lit up the room, near blinding the speaker: a thin, crooked man with emerald green skin and a large polo mint over his left eye. "Bleeding 'ell, I meant a lamp or a torch of some description, not that… <em>downstairs mix-up! <em>You onion!" Old Gregg stood sheepishly, fiddling with the hem of his/her neon tutu. "Sorry sir… thankya sir."

With a (normal) source of light in position, the Hitcher paused to assess the gathering: a hermaphrodite merman in a tutu; two short, rotund henchmen with bowler hats and bootlace moustaches and dreadlocked jazz musician with eyes that glowed like hot coals. Not an especially promising gang of cronies, but they would do. "Oi! Listen 'ere, you slaaaaaags! You all know your 'ere for one purpose, and one pur-"

"I'm Old Gregg!"

"Shut it, you onion, or I'll jab you in the gums with me screwdriver. I trained up the Ripper, I'll 'ave you know. Slashed him to pieces - ohooh, that'll teach 'im, slashing women, the useless bleeder!"

The room fell silent, and the Hitcher continued. "We're all 'ere cause we need to be avenged! Old Gregory: jilted, and left to mend 'is broken 'eart! Spirit of Jazz: left infected and diseased by the evil that is the pin of the punk! Crimes of such nature cannot be ignored! That is why we must find, and destroy… er… whatsisface… the big man, with small eyes… bit like a shrimp…"

"Howard?"

"That's the one!"

"But boss… didn't we vow to protect 'im?"

"Yeah, but that was six years ago, and with that thousand euros spent and out of the equation, I think I am well within my rights!" The Hitcher turned to face them all, analysing them all with his solo polo peeper.

"And if any of you don't like this proposition, I'll slash you one! Understand that, boys!"

The Piper Twins stepped forward, trying their best not to upset their master. "But what about his friends: the lady-man, Vince, and the magic boy, the shaman? Won't they try to 'elp 'im?"

"_I can help with that!" Out of the shadows, another voice rang. It was high, wild, crazed, and it the light of the lantern, the group could see the shot needles shining where his fingers should be. _

"Get in 'ere, boy, where I can see your face."

Stepping into the light was a vague creature: fox-like, ragged, and quite frankly, high. "I heard you need some help, er, getting rid of Vincey. Vincey princey… I did a rhyme…hehehe!"

"But sir!" The piper twins began, hoping to distract attention from the Crack Fox. "Seriously! What are we going to do?"

"I've already got an idea, boy, and it's a good-un! I've already sent out some, er, persuasions, to bring Vincey and Old Shrimp-Eyes closer together. Makes matters simple, see. To be honest, I just want me another 1000 euros. I ain't running over the country for 'im, even if he did do some pretty dodgy stuff."

"And the shaman?"

"Shaman, boy? Magic, boy? Well, my voodoo's a bit rusty, but trust me, if all goes well… I'm a cockney bitch! I will slash if I please, and if that shaman's in the way…** _let's just say the Board of shamans will be one shaman short."_**

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><p><strong><em>Suckish, but it's a lead up. Crimpity Crimpity xD REVIEW!<em>**


	2. Chapter 2

_NEXT CHAPTER! WAY-HEY! REVIEW, YOU ONIONS, REVIEW! Long time to update, but I've been busy shopping. I've got The Mighty Book Of Boosh now, AND green face paint. I'm going as The Hitcher for Halloween ;) teehee. My best friends are going as the Spirit of Jazz and Tommy Nookah - it's gonna be a blast!_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 2<strong>_

Epping Forest was usually one of the quietest places in the Greater London/Essex region. Owned by the government, few people ever visited, and the nights were long, empty and silent. Tonight, however, was different. It was the second Wednesday of the month - Shaman Meeting Night - and the air was thick with magic and mystery, as well as a few outrageous swears and the kind of smoke that is usually related to something less-than-legal.

Nestled soundly between the trees, the Shamans were sat at the glossy conference table, all gathered around the so called 'main man' and Head Shaman, Dennis - who was currently trying to stop Saboo from strangling Tony Harrison. _"I told you you'd come to the Crunch!" _Saboo seethed furiously, whilst wrapping Tony's tentacles around his own neck. Tony's face was gradually turning a rather fetching shade of purple, wheezing and retching as he clearly mouthed the words "This… is… an… outrage!". On the far end of the table, Naboo the Enigma sighed sadly. Every week was the same. _Tony would try Saboo's temper, Dennis would fail to do anything about it… _Naboo scanned the table, shaking his head. _'And yes,' _he thought. _'Kirk is stoned again'. _Naboo smiled fondly at his fellow Shaman. _'God knows what he's looking at.'. _Naboo tried to turn back to his papers, only to find himself attempting to follow Kirk's gaze. He shook himself violently, trying to shake off the fog that had filled his mind. _'If only I'd taken that job at Dixon's…'_

Taking a long sip of tea, Naboo began to choke. _Bloody tea leaves! _"Bollo! I told you to strain the tea, you berk!" The middle-aged gorilla was about to apologise, when something from within the cup caught his eye. "Master! Look!" But Naboo had already seen, for at the bottom of the cup, the leaves had shifted to spell out a message:

_Howard and Vince are in grave danger._

From there the leaves shifted again, now forming a simple, yet unmistakable curve on the china - that of a large, rounded polo mint. There was a moment of silence before Naboo and Bollo's eyes met again, now clearly filled dread and dismay. _"I gotta bad feeling bout this…"_

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><p>Howard Moon stared down at the café table, avoiding eye contact with everyone who passed: true, most found his stare unnerving as it was, but this time it for his sake, not theirs. The crumpled letter lay in front of him, never leaving his view. The letter itself was but a scrap of paper, torn from a shopping pad, with a date and address upon it in inky print. Normally, Howard would throw it away, thinking it a mistake: but there was something formidable about the watercolour hearts painted intricately in the corners. That, and the clear sign off that simply read <em>'Eels'. <em>

Howard began to shiver as he remembered the horrifying connection he had with that slimy creature; remembered the hideous boney man-witch that had once hitched a ride from him and had continued to turn up in every place imaginable since: from another planet to his very shop. Howard shuddered again as he recalled that horrible night, when the wind was howling, and the rain was falling in liquid sheets, mingled with dirt, to the Shoreditch pavements. That night, when a dark figure, disappearing into the darkness between the streetlamps as he walked, ignored the _'Closed' _sign and stepped straight into the shop, screwdriver glistening at his side. That night, when The Hitcher laid one long, green finger onto the Howard's trembling shoulder as he uttered that chilling phrase: _"Are YOU bullet-proof, boy?"_

Howard was so immersed in the nightmare of that memory that he didn't notice the door swing open beside him until he heard a voice, bubbling with the same enthusiasm as a child on Christmas morning. "Get this! River Island's got a sale on next door! Genius!" Looking up, Howard caught sight of a man; a small, almost elegant kind of man with long black hair and wide, child-like eyes, teetering forwards on his red Cuban heels. His Dracula-esque cape swirled about his ankles, covering his pinstriped drainpipes; its stiff collar brushing his cheekbones. There was no denying who this was. Howard slowly stood, a shaky hand on his forehead. "V-Vince?" he stuttered. _"Vince?"_

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><p>Back in the Forest, Naboo stumbled frantically through the trees, Bollo hot on his heels. Many would wonder how the shaman could escape the tedious meeting so fast, but when <em>certain <em>people decide it is appropriate to argue who's better - Massive Attack or The Foreigner - it is surprising how many other things go unnoticed. True, it had been years since the pair had seen their weird and wonderful friends, and normally Naboo would be less than willing to jump in and rescue them, but this time there was something genuinely chilling about the signs he had received: something powerful was out there, even more powerful than everything he had ever encountered before combined.

The Moon smiled lazily down upon them, blissfully unaware of the pandemonium occurring on the ground below: he was too busy commenting on the new varieties of cola to be of any help. Naboo paused in the beam of milky moonlight, panting heavily; he was keeled over, his blue turban slipping down his forehead, clashing with his face as he changed from paper-white to a heated red. A droplet of sweat rolled down his brow as he attempted to rectify his breathing. "You ok, master?" Bollo had appeared at his side, obviously struggling himself.

"_I'm… fine…" _Naboo gasped. _"We… must… help… Vince…"_

At the moment the word Vince had left Naboo's lips, a strange wind blew across the clearing; Naboo knew what this was at once. "A Taboo charm? On the word 'Vince'? But wh-?"

"Evening, squire." Naboo wheeled round, hand raised and ready with his shamanistic powers, but he was too slow. _The last thing Naboo saw was a green, webbed hand closing in before he and Bollo were swallowed up into the eternal blackness of the hitcher's solo, polo box._

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><p><strong><em>There you go! Now, REVIEW!<em>**


	3. Chapter 3

_Hi guys! Due to amazing feedback from AmiliaPadfoot, Reincarnated Witch, Chalcedony Rivers, Fremione Perfected, Hats-For-Alice and 'Cup', I have decided to continue this story. PS - if you are interested, I have a very random blog (.com) that I'd love you fellow tumblr peeps to follow. Not that I'm self-advertising, of course ;) teehee! Just, enjoy :-)_

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><p><em><strong><span>Chapter 3<span>**_

It was midnight. The sky was an inky black, sequinned with silvery stars, and the moon was at his fullest. Whilst sneaking a peek in the river at his beautiful milky-white reflection, two small, travelling dots of light came into his lunar vision. These so happened to be headlights; van headlights belonging to an ancient, abandoned wreck of a vehicle that, in turn, just so happened to be stamped with the trademark Zooniverse logo. Old Gregg was sat at the steering wheel: in between his Home Economics classes, he had managed to squeeze in a few driving-school-lessons, too; just as well, as none of the others had bothered. After all, when you were hitch-hikers, could use your spiritual powers to apperate at will or were even too stoned to stand, what was the point? They were doing about ten miles an hour, and the van's engine was screeching and spluttering in protest, but Gregg just smiled and steered and carried on out into the abyss.

Riding shotgun with Gregory was none other than the Spirit of Jazz. There was an awkward silence, only punctuated with the occasional snore from the back seat or the sound of the mysterious trunks hitting the side of the van, when out of nowhere, Gregg spoke.

"I'm Old Gregg."  
>"What?"<br>"I'm Old Gregg. Pleased to meet ya." The Spirit of Jazz rolled his eyes exasperatedly, so fast they appeared to be a crimson blur in his skull. "You already said that, asshole."  
>"What's your name? I told you my name."<br>'_Like I asked…" _The phantom murmured, before clearing his throat. "It's Jimmy. Howlin' Jimmy Jefferson." 'Jimmy' ended his sentence proudly, awaiting some form of stunned response, only to be met with a look of confusion. "_What? You never heard of me, boy?" _Jimmy's eyes grew wide - how long had it been since he had released a record? Only 50, 60 years! How was it people no longer knew his name? Damn swamp fever! Damn Tiny Robert! If he ever found him… mind you, knowing Tiny Robert, he would find a way round it. Say that the record was more of a Horcrux than something to mean he was actually remembered. He'd say voodoo doesn't work that way, that he should have read the small print first. Jimmy sighed. "C'mon, boy! Howlin' Jimmy Jefferson, legendary Jazz artiste? Don't ring any bells?"  
>Old Gregg smirked, choosing his words wisely. "Well, I'm Old Gregg, legendary man-fish, an' you ain't ever heard of me, have ya?" Jimmy paused, and, realising he was beaten, changed the subject.<p>

"So, um, how'd you meet Howard?"  
>Gregg reached out and switched on the radio; a clashy old rock song was thrown out, with lines about green grass and a Paradise City being yelled over a series of impressive guitar riffs. Jimmy winced at the sound of the heavy rock invading his jazz-accustomed ears, crumbing his brain like Rivita, but decided conversation should take his mind off it. After all, this guy should be alright. After all, why'd the Hitcher let him into the crew in the first place? Gregg sighed sadly, reclining his seat a little as he spoke. "Howard an' me met out on Black Lake. They were so romantic, those boat times. He pulled me up with his big, strong arms… felt like he'd take'a good care o' Ol' Gregory… forever an' ever. Thought he'd help Ol' Gregg getta over my… previous heartache." Gregg whispered sadly; Jimmy could see tears swimming in his little fishy eyes, and couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Gregg's webbed hands gripped the wheel a little tighter, steering away from the edge of the road. "He said he'd marry me, y'know Jimmy. It was true movie love, like on in the movies, like in that movie with Drew Barrymore in. That was a nice movie, nice happy movie. Like me an' Howard, in our here happy-movie times. I thought he loved me exactly as I loved him." Gregg coughed and sniffed, wiping away his tears. "Betta to a' loved n' lost, then' a never a' loved at all."<p>

Jimmy had no idea what to say (after all, what is there to say to a creepy, heartbroken man-fish?), until a few minutes down the road he found another question was playing on his mind, like a jazz player on sax. "So what about this, uh, previous heartache?" Jimmy had no idea why he was asking this; he guessed he was providing some sort of comfort to the poor scaly man-fish, though he automatically regretted it. A twisted sort of grin spread across Gregg's face, that of vicious killer. "Oh, _that_ heartache." Jimmy twisted awkwardly in his seat, wishing he had never asked at all. "Before I met Howard Moon, Slash was my main squeeze." Jimmy was confused; he looked from Gregg's sincere face to the radio, which was now playing 'Sweet Child o' Mine', and back again. "Slash?" he spluttered. "THE Slash? The legendary guitarist - Slash?"  
>"Yessir, thankya sir." Jimmy couldn't help but notice Gregg's sick grin had not gone anywhere: if anything, to his horror, it had widened, revealing all of Gregg's small, pointed teeth. "I met him while I was basking on a rock in Los Angeles: he was there, jamming' on the beach. I thought it would be lovely with Slash, but I was wrong. He had an evil way, tried to sneak off from old Gregg, tried to do our coupley things alone. I had to control him, so I made him a hat, a nice little top hat with a here contraption inside that would crush Slash's skull like a watermelon. He'd soon learn to love me again. But even when he'd cried a tear of blood and yelled for Axl to help him, all the way up on Level 6, he still tried ta' run away from Ol' Gregory."<p>

After much throat-clearing, Jimmy asked: "So, what happened to Slash?"  
>The manic grin reappeared on Gregg's face<em>. "I tried t' kill him." <em>Needless to say, the rest of the journey was endured in complete, sickening silence.

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><p>In the boot of the van, amongst various cages and trunks, Naboo lay down in defeat. He was now in a van with rapist, murderers and the like. Bollo himself was caged, knocked out from the blow of the Hitcher's box lid. Naboo sighed - who would have thought a group of people so power-hungry would join forces: and for what reasons? Time was running short - there was no chance of sorting this mess out alone. In a last attempt to help his friends, he decided it was time to call upon the gifts that were bestowed him when he first became a Shaman.<p>

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><p>"<em>So… ahem… so…"<br>_"Come on Howard, it's me." Vince Noir smirked at his close friend's mutterings, flipping his raven tresses over his shoulder whilst scrambling for the latest copy of Cheekbone (it had been updated twelve times since he had first received his letter two days before). Howard stared at Vince: _didn't this guy ever age? _He still looked (and dressed) like he was a twelve-year-old drag queen, and yet somehow he still managed to have the full attention of every female (and quite a few males) in the small 24-hour café - and God, didn't he know it. Vince laughed when he caught sight of Howard's obvious aggravation, shaking his head. "I can't help it! I'm the Confuser! _Is it a man? Is it a woman? I'm not sure I mind… _Hey, watch this!" Vince wheeled around to glare at the occupant of the neighbouring table: a young, suited-up student who had been staring longingly at Vince's hair gave a start and tried to turn away. _"Look mate, I'm not the judgemental type, but from the looks you were giving the waitress, I'm not your usual catch." _The student, on hearing Vince's voice (that was probably more masculine than expected), looked nothing short of horrified. _"You can't just go gay, mate. It's not like buying a ladder!"_ The young guy left the café in a blur, leaving Vince to prop up his feet on the seat where he had once sat, grinning all over his face. The atmosphere seemed more relaxed, more like the old days, more like the old Vince-and-Howard times.

"So, what have you been up to, then, Vincey?"  
>Vince shrugged happily, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Not much. Got a job at TopShop: not brilliant, but the discounts I get are genius!"<br>"Nice."  
>"So what about you?"<br>"Me?"  
>"Yeah, Howard… you"Howard paused, trying to muster up his most impressive expression, but only succeeded in making his eyes appear even smaller than usual. "Well, I… I… I've been a busy man, sir." Vince Noir raised an eyebrow.<br>"Lots of…. Lots of _acting, _sir, very high profile." This last comment actually caused Vince to laugh out loud: not a spiteful laugh, but a long, loud, happy laugh that had it not been aimed at his expense, Howard would have laughed too. "You call that Jurgen Haabermaaster crap high-profile? Come on Howard, think it through! You were in an advert for trapped wind!"  
>"Not Haabermaaster. Something else!"<br>"You're not an actor, Howard. You get The Chokes. A nearby cheese plant can send you into a state of near panic."  
>"Perhaps I've overcome them, sir!"<br>"_You're a caretaker in Leeds, Howard."  
><em>"Who told you that!"  
>"Leroy."<br>_"Leroy?"  
><em>"Yeah, Leroy. He knows his stuff, does Leroy. Working in a newsagents, he gets all the gossip. He overhears it, see. Kids chatting in the sweet isle; grannies having a chinwag when they're stocking up on their scratch cards. Leroy hears it all, and coveys it back to me in one concise email, once, maybe twice daily. He knows I hate being left in the dark."

Vince smiles at Howard, and for a second, it's like he never left, like those six years apart had never even happened at all. But they had. Nothing could change that. Three weeks after Sammy the Crab had gone on a homicidal killing spree, and Howard had returned to find how easily he had been replaced, he had decided living in Shoreditch was becoming more trouble than it was worth. He had got up one morning, packed up his trumpet and left, leaving Vince on the doorstep of Nabootique with a shiny cape and a whole lot of memories.  
>Eventually, everybody went their own way. Vince, pretty much unable to look after himself after Howard left, moved in with Leroy: the area was pretty '<em>Crimewatch<em>'_, _but it was a place to stay. Naboo, now with no shop hands, had to go back to being a freelance Shaman, and moved back to the Dalston flat that he lived in before he had even begun his work. _In short, the Nabootique, with all stock and property, was left to rot. _

"So?" quizzed Vince. "Why'd you go? It's not like you had anything better to go to."  
>"To be honest, little man, it was all the crazy adventures that did it for me."<br>"Crazy adventures? It was just a bit of fun!"  
>Howard shook his head sadly, staring through the grimy café window at the cold, dark street outside.<br>"But where do you draw the line, Vince? A cockney rapist threatening for a thousand euros? Being abducted by a mentally ill sea monster? A Crack fox almost costing Naboo his life? Or even-" Howard leaned in. his voice dropping to a whisper. "_Or even losing my best friend?" _The electro-poof shifted in his seat, looking down at the table from under his root-boosted fringe like a guilty child. "The Jazz cell could have killed you, Vince. I mean, look at that time when you listened to weather report and your neck swelled up. That was just a bit of weather report. This was the blood of Howling Jimmy Jefferson, for God's sake. Maybe it's something to do with all the punk that you and Terminal Margaret were playing that night, but with how rogue that jazz cell was, it's a wonder you didn't just drop dead on stage."  
>Vince looked up shyly, the impact of the jazz-maverick's words hitting him like a tonne of bricks. <em>Howard had saved his life. Sure, it had meant Bollo telling him Iggy Pop worked at Asda to make him shed a few tears, but it was all so Howard could get out of him in time, Jazz cell in tow… all so Howard could save him.<em>

"Still, none of that's gonna happen now though, right Howard?"  
>"Course not!" Howard tried his best to sound reassuring, though the sign-off on his letter had now set alarm bells ringing. "This is 2013! We've left that behind us, sir! What's the worst that could happen?"<p>

As Howard uttered these words, the lights grew dim, and everything around them froze: people stopped mid-step, mid-breath; crumbs paused half-way on their fall to the ground. Then the waitress, who had been standing nearby, turned to them, expression blank, and opened her mouth, but the voice coming from her was not hers. "Vince! Howard!"  
>Howard's face was a mask of shock. "Naboo? Is that you?"<br>"Yeah, I'm talking through this gal. Vince has seen it, he knows the score."  
>"Naboolio! How are you, pal?"<br>"Shut up Howard! There isn't _time!"  
><em>There was an edge of panic in Naboo's usually monotone words, something that could make anyone feel uneasy. "What's up, Naboo?"  
>"<em>It's the Hitcher!" <em>Howard and Vince slowly turned to each other, a chill running down their spines. "He's back, and he's not alone! There's Old Gregg, that Jazz-ghost arse, and his other Henches. He came for me and Bollo in the woods as soon as he knew I was going to help you; he picked me up, put me in his box. I'm in the back now - I think he's got other creatures here to help him- and he's heading for the Zooniverse. I don't know what he's planning, but I think it's got something to do with Bainbridge! Howard, Vince: I'm finished. You get yourselves to the Zooniverse, you'll find Bollo there, and I'll try to leave him with some pointers on how to help. But guys, you're in great danger. This one's on you. _Don't let me down." _

The light flickers back to normal, and the café comes back to life: coffee cups clinking, espresso machine whirring; but all Howard and Vince can do is remain frozen, rooted to the spot. "Vince?"  
>"Yeah?" His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper, and he decides that his heels, not fear, are to blame for his shaking knees. He looks up at his companion, only to see all evidence of colour has been drained from his face, and that he too was holding the table for support. Howard stares right back at Vince with tiny, petrified eyes, like a shrew that has spotted a circling owl.<p>

"_**I've got a bad feeling about this…"**_

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><p><em>Haha! Ruddy marvellous effort if I do say so myself! Review guys, or I'll jab you in the gums with me screwdriver! Love ya, Drammy xxx<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_Just for measure, this is more of a bromance than a fluff, but Y'know. And as an after-thought, am I the only one that thinks in, say, 20, 30 years, Noel Fielding will end up looking like Ronnie Wood? Just been watching Rolling Stone's 'Shine A Light' and it seemed to make a bit of sense. Oh dear, I'm well and truly obsessed. Oh well, enjoy x_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 4<strong>_

It was raining heavily when the motley crew finally arrived at the wrought-iron gates of the Zooniverse. Flashes of lightening illuminated the zoo, causing the animals (who, after 16 years as a zoo manager, Bob Fossil still couldn't name) to cower backwards in their cages. For the Jerome the Crack Fox, however, there was no time for cowering. Crippled and broken from the dustbin men's rubbish crusher, he could not help the gang efficiently alone, and now he must do his duty to aid them on their task. He giggled manically as he limped towards the main building, the street lamps guiding the way. Behind him, three huge crates were being hauled by the remaining members of the group, strange growls and hisses and squeals being emitted from within them. Finally reaching the main office, the Hitcher reached out with his monstrous green thumb, and rapped on the door three times. Immediately, the door was flung open, and though kept on the latch, in the gap between the door frame and the door, a round, snobbish face was visible, ultimately rather pompous-looking and sporting an impressive walrus moustache. _"Who is it?"  
><em>"_It's me, you onion." _The door opened fully, and the silhouette of Dixon Bainbridge stood clearly in the doorframe.  
>"Quickly!" he hissed, gesturing for the troop to enter. "Before one of these berks see you!"<br>They rushed into the office, dragging the crates along the floor with scrape and a clunk. The Hitcher smiled, a long, grimacing smile that would make your blood run cold. "Thankya kindly, Squire." he nodded at Dixon Bainbridge, wringing his hand. "I'm glad you understood our, er, _arrangement_."  
>"No problem, sir. You do know how I love to dice and slice!"<p>

Bainbridge walked over to his bookshelf, and laid a single finger on his favourite atlas. His guests stood with baited breath as the bookshelf began to tremble, then split, revealing a small, hidden door, beyond which were the stairs that led to his secret lab. Down in the darkness of the lab, an operating table was prepared; a surgical gown ready to be worn. Bainbridge pulled on his gloves, turning to the troop. "I trust you have the blueprints, sir?" The Hitcher reached into his coat pocket, bringing out a roll of paper. Pinning it to the wall, the sheet fell open, exposing an illustration of the anatomy of a terrible being. "This, Bainbridge, is our beast."  
>Bainbridge's face had become ashen and drawn; and at that moment his mouth rather resembled that of a goldfish. "I-i-it's h-hideous!"<br>"It's supposed to be scary, your plum preserve! What did you think I was going to show you, a picture of Lily Allen?"  
>"No, n-no, b-but-"<br>"No buts, Bainbridge. Whassa matter, you scared, boy? You can't handle the rough stuff, boy?"  
>"<em>Never!"<em> At the Hitcher's taunts, Bainbridge's face grew blotchy and red, like a badly mixed raspberry ripple. "Just-" his voice dropped back to a whisper. _"What is it?"  
><em>"That, my friend, is the most evil creature to walk this earth. With the hind legs of a Killeroo, the claws of a crack fox, the head of a black-and-white rainbow, the flexibility of an eel and the protective armour of a Nazi turtle, he would be unstoppable! And this -" The Hitcher paused to raise a bottle high above his head into the light of the full moon, causing the emerald liquid to bubble and fizz. "-is what will really bring our plan into action. With this, even 'Ol Gregory could take over the world… or, at least, a small area of south Wales."  
>"<em>Where," <em>Bainbridge growled, "did you get _that_?"  
>"That, squire, is on a need-to know basis. And you," said the Hitcher, "don't need to know."<p>

The was a moment where not one person in the room could take their eyes off the crates before them, that were holding the components of a modern-day Frankenstein; furious growls and squawks came from within.  
>"So squire," The Hitcher snarled, standing beside the first crate, rusted iron key at the ready. <em>"Shall we begin?"<em>

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><p><em>The tube rattled through the underground tunnels, sending a breeze ruffling through Vince's hair. <em>Usually, Vince didn't mind the underground - it was an efficient means of travel, quick and easy, but now Vince felt like he was being buried alive, the hot, sooty air slowly suffocating him with smoky fingers. He hugged his River Island bags close to his chest, the plastic crackling as he fidgeted. Beside him, Howard wasn't feeling much better. He nervously smoothed down his bebop moustache, again and again, as he whispered over and over _"It's not going to be ok… It's not going to be ok…" _In a state of blind panic, he clutched at Vince, struggling for breath: "I don't want to die, Vince! I've got so much to give! "

Vince sighed, resting his hand on Howard's shoulder. "We won't die Howard. We know what we're up against, don't we?" "That's the problem! I don't think we _do!"  
><em>Vince frowned, crossing one drainpiped leg over the other. "Whaddya mean, Howard?"  
>"Naboo said they were going to Bainbridge, right?"<br>"Yeah…" Vince replied slowly, pulling his patented 'so what?' face.  
>"He's dabbled with mutants, Vince!" Howard's face was a mask of terror; eyes screwed up to 18 of their natural size in fear. "He could have a whole army of mutants at his disposal! A creature with talons like kitchen knifes… a monster with a tongue double the length of his body…"  
>"Couldn't that just be Gene Simmons?" Vince said thoughtfully, wrapping his cape tighter to his tiny frame. "'Cause I don't think I'd be scared of him. He's just a man with funky make-up, that's all."<br>"How do you know, sir? These Glam-rock types could be very dangerous. You don't know what's hiding beneath that eyeliner!"  
>Vince grinned smugly at Howard's antics, shaking his head. "Do you know what's under <em>this<em> eyeliner?" He said, gesturing to himself. "'Cause it ain't a murderer, that's for sure! It's just a fashion statement! The Glam-rock community wouldn't have reason to hurt us anyway, as long as you show 'em respect!"

"But it's not like that with the Hitcher, is it, Vince? Remember what he said? _'Do I look like a reasonable man, or a peppermint nightmare'_?"  
>"Howard." Vince said shortly. "Relax. Something'll turn up, it always does. Right now, we have to thing of Naboo and Bollo. And beside's, they'll be fine. We'll pick them up at the Zooniverse, Naboo'll sort it all out and we'll be back in time for tea. Right?" But Vince never got an answer, because by then the train had grinded to a halt at the station, and within seconds Howard and Vince were off, and had melted into the crowd without a trace.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>So, here it is."<br>_"_It hasn't changed a bit."_

Howard and Vince stood in the pale sunlight that washed over the Zooniverse on that early Friday morning, soft smiles upon their tired faces. They were exhausted from their travels, yet had a sense of accomplishment that they had made it so far; that they hadn't given up out of laziness or cowardice… that they might have even done Naboo proud. The zoo was almost exactly as it was when they worked there eight years before; same crumbly stone paths, same ugly forest green uniforms that Vince itched to customise… even some of the old staff, like Joey Moose, gave a nod of acknowledgement in their direction. An intercom announcement rang out, proving that Dixon Bainbridge had hired another mindless buffoon shortly after Bob Fossil had started up the Velvet Onion, and as they walked they caught sight of two young guys - one tall and lanky with fine, brown hair, the other small and bright - bickering as they distributed seeds around the enclosures.

"I wonder…" Howard mumbled with a smile that Vince quickly returned. They hurried through the rest of the zoo, finally coming to a familiar enclosure - where, slumped against the wall, was a familiar gorilla. _**"Bollo!" **_Vince couldn't stop himself yelling out in delight as he sprinted towards the enclosure as fast as his Cuban heels would allow. The gorilla slowly raised his head; there was pain and sorrow in his eyes. Vince and Howard stopped dead in their tracks, feeling deep concern for their long lost friend. _What had happened? _Even when he was describing the death of his childhood friend Chinko, the pair had never seen him look so sad. "Bollo?" Howard whispered; they looked around, but there was no sign of the shaman they sought. "Where's Naboo?" Bollo stared back at his friends, and for the first time, they could see tears in his eyes. "Naboo," Bollo grunted, voice choked with tears, "is dead."  
><em>Their adventure had just begun…<em>

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><p><em>REVIEW! This is where it gets complicated!<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_First off, Oh My Jagger - SORRY for taking so long. It's an outrage, I'm a tosser. I've just been __**very **__preoccupied. Only now have I dug out my plans, whacked on The Cure and started typing. OK, anyone for another chapter, Booshies? So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty…_

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><p>"<em><strong>Naboo… is dead."<strong>_

There was a beat of silence; nobody seemed able to process the situation. A thousand memories flashed through the trio's minds: of Naboo stoned, angry at them for their stupid mistakes, sorting them out; from back when he was just a tiny kiosk vender in a turban to his final moments as one of their nearest and dearest. Finally, the reality hit home. A single tear rolled down Vince's ivory cheek, and like a lost child he crouched at the bars of Bollo's enclosure, silently sobbing. The primate reached through the bars, oh-so-gently stroking Vince's hair as to provide comfort without ruining its root-boosted splendour. "There there, precious Vince," he murmured. "There there."

"It seems so weird though," he choked, rubbing his eyes and inadvertently spreading the eyeliner in an interesting panda-like effect. "It was always _him _who saved _us_. And now..." Bollo reached forwards to embrace Vince's tiny frame the best he could from his steely prison.

"How did he go?" Howard asked, finally finding his voice and pulling the perfect expression of Cornish Guilt. Bollo, feeling Vince shudder with tears beneath him, shot a warning look in Howard's direction. "Now listen-"  
>"It's ok." Vince whispered into the gorilla's fur. "I want to know." The electro-poof raised his head to look at Bollo expectantly, while Bollo shifted sheepishly, his voice apologetic. "Well, Bollo don't exactly know. We were at Shaman meeting, and you know how Kirk behave. Lotta smoke, make my memory fuzzy… I don't remember anything from there."<p>

Vince wriggled free, shooting Bollo a pained look. "You mean you witnessed his final moments… and you don't remember a thing?"  
>Bollo buried his face in his hands. "I sorry, Vince! All I remember is Naboo falling from van. Nobody survive that! I- I-" The gorilla was growing more and more distressed, pacing madly before turning menacingly on Howard. "You!" He rumbled. "This all your fault!"<br>"Me?" Howard cried, his face giving way to Grief of a Sailor.  
>"YES!" Bollo roared, now in full primal fury. "If you hadn't run away, left Naboo an' Vince, then we all had been together, no need for Hitcher to hurt Naboo, no need for us to loose Nabootique, no need for any of this to happen!"<p>

"Oi!" Vince cried from the cold concrete where Bollo had dropped him. "This ain't time to be playing the blame game, alright?" Vince reached through the bars, curling his fingers round Bollo's gorilla fist, making his eyes automatically soften. "Bollo, mate. We've had some times, yeah, all of us, and we might not have wanted some stuff to happen, but it has." Tears swam in Bollo's eyes once again, making him look anything but what a gorilla was supposed to stand for: instead of strong, fearless, he looked weak and afraid. "Naboo's a shaman, yeah? I'm sure up until his last second he was plotting, out there, sorting himself out. But if not…" Vince paused to gulp back the tears, like a sleepy toddler. "I'm sure he's happy, 'up there' in Kingdom come, or Nirvana, or wherever shaman types bugger off to when they've popped their clogs." He attempted a weak smile, but only came across all the more miserable. "But the thing is, Bollo, you can't blame Howard for this, or me, or you, or even Naboo himself. The Hitcher's bad juju; not even Naboo's 411 years of experience could help him. But come on, he must have tried, must have fought. This is Naboo were talking 'bout. What would Naboo do, huh?"  
>Bollo paused, dazed, and turned to reach for a hookah, expertly hidden amongst the plants in the enclosure. "Well…"<p>

"Bollo!" Howard burst out, scandalised. "When we said think like Naboo, we did mean smoke… that!"  
>The situation was so bizarre, even for them, that through his tears, a small giggle escaped Vince's lips. "I take it the gangs back, then?" He laughed away the last few traces of misery, and wiping his cheek on the hem of his crumpled cape, beamed. "Nah mate… he'd make a plan!" With a flourish and a proud grin, Vince presented his friends with a small scrap of paper, with a drawing of a horse and the childish caption: 'Plan Pony'. And so, the trio huddled, and with Naboo's instructions, they hatched a plan to rescue Bollo, save the Nabootique, get their old lives back, and be home in time for tea.<p>

* * *

><p>Jerome the Crack Fox smiled. His vision was growing hazy, and he knew that once the anaesthetic kicked in, his heart would beat no more. "Sweet friends, " He murmured. "Kind, kind peoples" Slowly, his blood-shot eyes closed, and Dixon Bainbridge heaved a sigh, ruffling his moustache beneath his surgical mask. He wheeled him away to the operating theatre, leaving the cronies behind.<p>

"Is this entirely necessary, Boss?" Jackie Piper stammered, wringing his hands. "I mean, it was the poor sods idea to make the mutant, did we have to throw him into the mix as well?"  
>The Hitcher stood close by, his face pale beneath the green. "We had to, Sonny Jim; it's the way of the world"<br>"Boss"  
>"What?"<br>"Why _do _we need all this dirty money?" The Hitcher went to snap, jump down Jackie's throat, but realising he hadn't explained, sighed and turned to his associate.  
>"There are fearsome people out there, Piper, fearsome people. I myself have encountered them but once. You move once, it's said, and they'll never find you again. That, Piper, is a lie. They're out there, <em>ooooohhh<em> yes they are, plotting to get me. Y'know what I mean, Squire? Y'know what I mean?" Jackie nodded, and the Hitcher continued. "I owe them, big time, and with 900 year's interest in total, my debts have become more than I can 'andle. I have a comrade, an ally, that for just one thahsun Euros, that will guard 'em off, keep us safe as 'ouses. That's why we need the money, Squire - that'll be why." The Hitcher's thin, green mouth set in a thin, green line, he walked out of the waiting room door, cane at his side, and spoke no more.

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><p><em>Another chapter has been planned, this is just a filler really, but still… Hopefully you're little love-sick heads can start to piece together whats happening... :D R&amp;R <em>


	6. Chapter 6

_***Slowly wakes up*…yawn… Oh, hey guys. Oh, would you look at the time! 7 months since I was last on FF! What a crap fan-author I am! Seriously. I suck. OK, so I've been thinking (*gasp*): I took a leaf out of Morrissey's book - took a long walk, listened to The Smiths (I Want The One I Can't Have, There Is A Light That Never Goes Out and Half A Person are absolutely bloody perfect) and tried to get my head together. This is what I came up with. Bit of bad language on Naboo's part in this chapter, so my apologies in advance to all those reading. Thank you for your time.**_

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><p><em> To Howard, Vince and Bollo (I'm not putting 'dear'. I just don't swing that way, I'm no Graham Norton),<br>__If you're reading this, it means I'm gone. Probably dead, most likely injured and voodoo-ed up. It means I've left this with Bollo, and you've all found each other now. Just as well, you're all total Muppets and there's no way you'd manage alone.  
><em>_Now listen - or read, whatever. Every bit of this is important: I'm not writing for my health. There's just a few things you need to know - about what's happened, how to help Bollo, where to go from here, and what to do about this mess we're in.  
><em>_Basically, from what I heard, they're pissed off with Howard. The Hitcher knows that they're vulnerable, y'know, all jilted and that, and he seems to think that Howard is minted (don't know how he got that idea: he's a caretaker in Leeds), so he's convinced them that extortion is the best revenge, and threatening him with some freakish creature is going to make him cough up. Personally, I think he's scared of something, and needs the money to protect himself - the cowardly cockney he is. He's also got it figured that if anything happened to him, we'd come running, so he's tried to get us nearer together, and get rid of us, one by one.  
><em>_Seeing as they were heading for the Zooniverse, I'm guessing they're going to keep Bollo there. As soon as you get in, go round the back of the panda enclosure and go to the end of the corridor. That door brings you out at the back of Bollo's old enclosure. Get Bollo out of that exit, out of the zoo, as quickly as possible; he's a lumbering idiot and if you hang around too long they'll pounce on you like a tiger with Chlamydia. The main idea is not to give them the time to set whatever they're making on you, just make sure you're at a distance where you can give him the money and he can't hurt you.  
><em>_And about that. Howard, don't go back to Leeds; don't go back to the flat- and whatever you do, do NOT go back to the Nabootique. Find a place to lie low for a while, and expect some sort of memo or something from them. Something a bit threatening, a bit rough. Trust me, as long as you stay quiet for a bit, and do what they say, and everything will go back to normal. Codeye and co. will go back to wherever they came from, and you can go your own ways. Just don't get too worried about the threats, and Bollo - don't kick off. Your asthma can't take it, so don't be a prick.  
><em>_And last thing. Don't mess this up. Not trying to frighten you, but if you mess this up, get too cocky, don't do what I say - you'll be made into mincemeat. The hitcher is more than capable of causing damage. Just do what I've told you - and don't fuck it up.  
><em>_Sincerely (too formal?), Naboolio._

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't believe it. I honestly don't believe it."<br>_"I told you Leroy got everything."  
>"What?" Howard turned to his glittery companion, his face contorted into Bewildered Farmer until his realisation made it twist into Angry Priest. For the first time in years, Howard was once again Monsoon Moon, and there was a pain storm a-brewing. "For God's sake, Vince, I don't care who or what Leroy knows! What I do worry about is how <em>that <em>peppermint nightmare knows. You saw what Naboo put. I don't know if you can remember what he can do, sonnimy-jiminy, but it's fresh in my mind, fresh as a hot bun from mama's oven!"  
>"Alright Howard, cool your boots!"<br>"Look, Naboo put we should go find place to stay." Bollo grunted. "You know where we can go?"  
>"I've got a flat." Vince said softly after a pause, smoothing down his hair and a-tugging at his cape. "But-"<br>"But what?"  
>Vince shook his head, biting on his bottom lip. "It's not exactly the Ritz, Howard. The heating's a bit faulty, and we get leaks. I think upstairs' has got mice. And there's only one sofa." Vince paused again, as if realising just how bad his accommodation was. "Most of my wages just go on food and rent, I haven't really been able to do it up."<p>

Howard sensed that a nerve had been touched; he knew how much Vince had wanted to prove his success. He would never mention it, but Vince wasn't the only one being kept up-to-date with the gossip. Every new band was a hot vocal point among the students at Howard's inner-city comp, and with every success story, there was an almighty flop. Florence + The Machine, Kasabian, The Maccabees: they were the bands that earned the glowing reviews, every student gushing over each bands originality, how the latest one had nothing in common with the ones that had come before. On the other hand, every band that _didn't_ make it had one very clear thing in common. Be it electro or punk, ska or indie, Eighties Matchbox B-line Disaster Goth or 'The-Next-Beatles'-esque bubblegum-pop, every flop seemed to carry one huge flaw: the same front man, Vince Noir. To hear them slagging off the vocals and 'not seeing the point' of the lyrics of the very thing his best friend poured his heart and soul into; risked his job - and occasionally his life - for, was enough to make Howard's heart break. It appeared that there were still clouds in the sky for the Sunshine kid, and Howard was determined to blow them away.

Spotting their zookeeper doppelgangers out of the corner of his eye, he gave Vince a weak smile and a friendly nudge. "C'mon little man, I'm sure it's not that bad. Plus, there's no way it'll be worse than that manky zookeepers' hut. And speaking of which; do you see what I see?"  
>Vince looked up from his Chelsea boots, following Howard's line of vision until his baby-blue peepers widened with joy. "He's got the new 'Kiss' belt!" Vince exclaimed. "Genius! I would have loved that when I was working here! Oh Howard, I have taught you something after all!"<br>Howard rolled his tiny eyes, letting them swivel like peppercorns on a saucer. "_Above _the belt."  
>And sure enough, hanging from a diamante hook, was a set of gleaming keys. With a smile, the two men stepped away from the enclosure, and when they returned, those same gleaming keys were swinging between Vince's ring-adorned fingers. Behind them, the younger zookeeper began to panic, searching his pockets, and Howard picked up his pace. "C'mon, little man, haven't got all day." The mismatched friends hurried past the run-down kiosk where Naboo once worked, and along the narrow, off-white corridor, keys clinking as they ran.<p>

Inside his enclosure, Bollo was growing agitated. He tried to convince himself it was his asthma, not his anxiety, that was making it so hard to breathe. There was a clunk and scrape of metal-on-metal as a key turned in the lock, and Bollo stood, waiting beside the exit. After a few seconds of counting down, panting and muttered swears, the door few open. There was a moment of hesitation - surely this had all been too easy? A quick whisper to his pencilled pony, and Vince produced a can of Goth Juice from the folds of his cape. He caught Howard's eye, winking. "For emergencies." Removing the cap, Vince sprayed hard on the lock and round the edges of the doors along that familiar corridor. Seeing the bewildered looks being shot at him from his companions, Vince nodded through to the panda enclosure, where the suspicious zookeepers stood, distributing feed and bickering over the whereabouts of the keys. "I'm not risking Joan Jett and Charlie Mingus in there catching us. This stuff's 24-hour hold, they won't get out for ages. Even now, we'll need to mad dash. C'mon Bollo, stop being a twat, your asthma's not that bad." The Electro fairy raised his eyebrow at the older primate, who had been breathing heavily, and rolled his eyes. The men prepared themselves, balanced on the balls of their feet, coiled like vipers, like Olympic sprinters on the starting line. "Three, two, one… GO!"

Chelsea boots, moccasins and the bare feet of a silverback pounded the floor as the trio broke into a run, wind whistling in the ears as they ran past the school-trip parties and young families, knocking balloons out of sticky fingers while they zigzagged towards the exit. Bursting out of the gate, relieved laughter escaped Vince's lips, catching Howard's attention. There was still a trace of sadness in the young Goth's eyes, but there was a new-found determination, something that gave Howard hope. As they made for the station, Howard draped a lanky arm across Vince's shoulders. Vince shot him a confused look (what had happened to the no-touching rule?), but didn't complain - after all, he was grateful for the support. There had been something missing, Vince had to admit, and now, even in these circumstances, three out of four wasn't that bad. Scared as he was, being with Howard just made him feel… better? Something a bit less Vincent Black, Topshop employee, and a bit more Vince Noir, Rock and Roll Star. Leaning onto his best friend, it dawned on Vince that he felt safer than he had done in years. It no longer mattered that Howard was going to 'pull a move' or anything stupid like that - they were together again, and it was that all that mattered.

* * *

><p>In the shadows of the operating theatre, blissfully unaware of what was happening in his zoo, Dixon Bainbridge's time operating was finally coming to an end. As he sutured the last stitch, he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't like this business, not one little bit, and was glad it was all over. Glancing at the beeping monitor, a small smile spread across Dixon's pompous face. <em>The creature was alive.<br>_Removing his surgical mask and gown, Bainbridge stepped into the waiting room, where his acquaintance, the Hitcher, was waiting. He could had swore he caught a flash of worry in the cockney's eyes, but it was soon masked when he stood to address him, saying gruffly: "Well?"  
>Dixon nodded, with a reply equally as concise. "Yes." The Hitcher stepped past him, into the theatre, gazing at his monster, his creation, with misty eyes. "Bleedin' brilliant, ain't it?" The Hitcher, looking like a proud father on sports day, marched back to his cronies, tapping them all with the side of his cane. "Oi, you lazy shlags! We've got business to attend to." With that, he produced a biro (almost definitely stolen from the supply within the still-existing Nabootique site of Stationary Village) and notepaper, and began to write.<p>

* * *

><p>Hackney had never been Howard's favourite part of London. It was dark and dank and just a little bit scary, graffiti climbing the walls of shops and houses. Hooded hooligans ran the streets, keeping an eye on whoever passed through - it most certainly wasn't a place for a flamboyant rock stars, or jazz mavericks. Vince, to Howard's surprise, was strangely confident - he led them on with his head held high, swishing his cape deliberately as he passed thugs, not fazed by the enraged looks they were shooting him. From outside a run-down Costcutter, a voice called: "Oi mate, what is <em>you<em>?" Vince marched onwards, the heels of his Chelsea boots clicking proudly on the filthy pavement. Howard, however, was not so self-assured. With very jeer, every threatening shout, Howard jumped, and subconsciously took a few steps closer towards his companions. By the time the trio had begun to climb the rickety steel stairs that led to the flat above, the jazzy gent's nerves were frazzled. Vince paused outside his flat, suddenly shy again. "I-"  
>"Vince."<br>"It's just-"  
>"<em>Vince."<br>_"What?"  
>There it was again. The hand on the shoulder. "Please."<br>Vince turned quietly, slowly, to the door, fiddling with the keys in his pocket and a second later, the door swung open. "C'mon then. As long as you know it ain't no palace."

Howard felt awful to admit it - even to himself - but Vince was right. After stepping into the flat he soon saw what his friend had meant; it was more of a cupboard than a flat, and it wasn't in the best state, with pale wallpaper dotted with dark spots of damp and every other floorboard creaking as they made there way to the kitchen. A particularly loud squeak was emitted as he edged his way around the battered coffee table, and after staring stupidly at the floor as a series of scratching sounds could be heard, Howard remembered with a grimace what Vince had said about the mice. "Tea?" Vince called from the kitchenette, filling up the kettle at the sink. "Er, yes please, Vince." Perching awkwardly on arm of the sofa, Howard looked around, picking up on Vince's attempts to make the flat his own. The sequins stuck with superglue onto the lampshade; those glittery wind chimes that look like they should be in a teenage girl's bedroom, not a grown man's flat; every kind of fabric imaginable draped across the chairs. He looked up at the framed posters that hung around the room, guessing in his head which ones belonged to Vince, and which to Leroy. The Cure? Vince. Oasis? Leroy. Kiss? Vince. New York Dolls? Leroy. Judas Priest? Could be either. Kate Bush? Definitely Vince. Vince returned quickly, clutching the steaming mugs, and Howard suppressed a small smile as he saw the face that adorned his - Charles Mingus, in all his glory. '_Why on earth had Vince kept that for so long?_' Howard wondered, watching Vince take a sip from just above the face of David Bowie. Wouldn't it have contaminated the others with its jazzy presence? With a confused smirk, he swivelled to form a circle with his companions. "So." said Bollo, nursing his Monkees mug ("Very funny, Vince"). "What we do now?"  
>"Wait."<br>"For how long?"  
>"I don't know, Bollo."<br>Vince smirked, and piped up: "What do we do now, Howard?"  
>"We wait, Vince."<br>"How long for, Howard?"  
>"I don't know, Vince!" This charade went on for what seemed like forever, Bollo joining in, repeated again and again until the words no longer made sense, and the trio were soon laughing so hard they were howling like Mod Wolves at a full moon, tears streaming down their cheeks, soon laughing at nothing at all. But this was over too soon. There was a click of the letterbox and a letter, just like the ones they had received before, landed on the doormat. That awful atmosphere was back, like there had been in the café, where everything was cold and frightening and uncertain. The trio looked at each other with worried eyes, not sure who should make the first move. Bollo went to pick it up, but was interrupted by a strangled 'No!". Vince shook his head. "Please. Not now." With the tips of his fingers, he picked up the envelope, flinging it onto the table. "It'll be there tomorrow. We can sort this out then."<br>"But Naboo said -" Howard cut off sharply as Vince turned his head away, tears in his eyes. "No. You're right. We need rest."  
>"So… tomorrow?"<br>_"Tomorrow."_

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><p><em>SO! Worth the wait? I doubt it, but let me know what you think, anyway x much love! <em>


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